


The Dragon from the Wall

by Aerion_Veryzes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon doesn't take the Black, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, R plus L equals J, Young Griff is a Blackfyre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-18 22:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerion_Veryzes/pseuds/Aerion_Veryzes
Summary: Jon never swears his vows as Ghost discovers the corpses of the Rangers before he can say the words. Upon learning of Ned's arrest Jon decides to return home to Winterfell to help Robb, yet complications ensue before this happens.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Sigh* I guess the whole christmas spirit has me eager to write, so here we go.

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. I've borrowed a lot of dialogue and such from the books, in this chapter, but I'm too lazy to point it all out.**

 

**Chapter 1.**

 

**Jon:**

 

The sun was sinking below the trees when they reached their destination, a small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle. Jon drew in a breath, and he saw Sam staring. Even in the Wolfswood, you never found more than two or three of the white trees growing together; a grove of nine was unheard of. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as ruby. Bowen Marsh commanded them to leave their horses outside the circle. “This is a sacred place, we will not defile it.”

When they entered the grove, Samwell Tarly turned slowly looking at each face in turn. No two were quite alike. “They’re watching us,” he whispered. “The old gods.”

 

“Yes.” Jon knelt, and Sam knelt beside him.

 

And then, just as they were to speak the words, Ghost was back, stalking softly between two weirwoods. _White fur and red eyes,_ Jon realized, disquieted. _Like the trees…_

The wolf had something in his jaws. Something black. “What’s he got there?” asked Bowen Marsh, frowning.

 

“To me, Ghost.” Jon commanded. “Bring it here.” The direwolf trotted to him. Jon heard Sam's sharp intake of breath.

 

“Gods be good,” Dywen muttered. “That’s a hand.”

 

“Back to the Wall,” Bowen Marsh barked, “Swiftly.”

 

None of them spoke a word as they made the return journey back to the Wall, Jon himself found himself remembering his uncle Benjen’s words when they last spoke in Winterfell, how he might not be so eager to swear his life to the wall if he knew what it meant, and now as they trotted back to Castle Black he realized he was shivering. _‘I almost swore my oath,’_ he realized. He had been so certain that it was what he wanted, even if Lord Commander Mormont, Maester Aemon or Uncle Benjen had all cautioned him, questioned him, not directly perhaps, but the questions had been there.

 

And then, Ghost took off into the darkening evening towards another copse of trees. “Ghost,” Jon yelled, before setting after the white wolf in a gallop.

 

“Snow,” Bowen Marsh voice chased him. “Get back here boy.”

 

‘ _Not a boy,’_ Jon thought angrily. He was near five and ten and bastard born beside. A man grown by near all accounts, and bastards grew quicker, that was common wisdom in every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. His garron stomped nervously when he put it to a halt beside Ghost, there was something here beside Ghost that unnerved the horse, and in the dark gloom of evening Jon too felt the hair at the back of his neck tingle.

 

Moments later he was joined by his fellow recruits, and Bowen Marsh and Jaremy Rykker, all of them staring down at the two dead bodies resting in the snow. Ser Jaremy dismounted and walked over cautiously to check the bodies.

 

“Othor,” announced Ser Jaremy Rykker, “beyond a doubt. And this one was Jafer Flowers.” He turned the corpse over with his foot, and the dead white face stared up at the overcast sky with blue, blue eyes. “They were Ben Stark’s men, both of them.”

 

‘ _My uncle’s men,’_ Jon thought numbly. He remembered how he’d pleaded to ride with them. ‘ _Gods, I was such a green boy. If he had taken me, it might be me lying here…_

 

Jafer’s right wrist ended in the ruin of torn flesh and splintered bone left by Ghost’s jaws. His right hand was resting in Bowen’s saddlebag. His left hand, still at the end of his arm, was as black as his cloak.

 

“Right,” Ser Jaremy broke them out of their reverie, or perhaps they were all unsettled at the sight of the bodies, surrounded as they were by the twisted trees that seemed as monsters in the darkness. “Let’s get them back to Castle Black.”

 

Fortunately it took but mere moments to throw the dead brothers over the horses and tie them to the saddles and resume their ride back to Castle Black. Jon spared a look back towards the now distant grove of Weirwoods. ‘ _I’ll be back tomorrow,’_ he thought. ‘ _Tomorrow I’ll be a black brother in truth.’_

 

Lord Commander Mormont was waiting for them when they arrived in the courtyard. “Gods have mercy,” he muttered as he laid eyes on the two dead men that were dumped on the ground. “Where did you find them?”

 

“Less than a mile from the Wall My Lord,” Ser Jaremy answered the Old Bear. “They’re two of Ben Stark’s men.”

 

“Ser Jaremy,” the Old Bear asked gruffly, “Ben Stark had six men with him when he rode from the Wall. Where are the others?”

 

“Would that I knew My Lord,” Ser Jaremy replied.

 

Mormont grunted, displeased with the answer. “Very well, tell me how they died at least.”

 

Squatting beside the dead man he had named Jafer Flowers, Ser Jaremy grasped his head by the scalp. The hair came out between his fingers, brittle as straw. The knight cursed and shoved at the face with the heel of his hand. A great gash in the side of the corpse’s neck opened like a mouth, crusted with dried blood. Only a few ropes of pale tendon still attached the head to the neck. “This was done with an axe.”

 

“Aye,” muttered Dywen, the old forester. “Be like the axe that Othor carried, m’lord.”

 

Jon could feel his breakfast churning in his belly, but he pressed his lips together and made himself look at the second body. Othor had been a big ugly man, and he made a big ugly corpse. No axe was in evidence. Jon remembered Othor; he had been the one bellowing the bawdy song as the rangers rode out. His singing days were done. His flesh was blanched white as milk, everywhere but his hands. His hands were black like Jafer’s. Blossoms of hard cracked blood decorated the mortal wounds that covered him like a rash, breast and groin and throat. Yet his eyes were still open. They stared up at the sky, blue as sapphires.

 

Ser Jaremy stood. “The wildlings have axes too.”

 

Mormont rounded on him. “So you believe this is Mance Rayder’s work? This close to the Wall?”

 

“Who else, my lord?”

Jon could have told him. He knew, they all knew, yet no man of them would say the words. ’ _The Others are only a story, a tale to make children shiver. If they ever lived at all, they are gone eight thousand years.’_ Even the thought made him feel foolish; he was a man grown now, a black brother of the Night’s Watch, not the boy who’d once sat at Old Nan'sfeet with Bran and Robb and Arya.

 

Yet Lord Commander Mormont gave a snort. “If Ben Starkhad come under wildling attack a half day’s ride from Castle Black, he would have returned for more men, chased the killers through all seven hells and brought me back their heads.”

 

“Unless he was slain as well,” Ser Jaremy insisted.

 

The words hurt, even now. It had been so long, it seemed folly to cling to the hope that Uncle Benjen was still alive, but Jon was nothing if not stubborn.

 

“It has been close on half a year since Benjen left us, my lord,” Ser Jaremy went on. “The forest is vast. The wildlings might have fallen on him anywhere. I’d wager these two were the last survivors of his party, on their way back to us…but the enemy caught them before they could reach the safety of the Wall. The corpses are still fresh, these men cannot have been dead more than a day…”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sam squeaked.

 

Jon was startled. Sam’s nervous, high-pitched voice was the last he would have expected to hear. The fat boy was frightened of the officers, and Ser Jaremy was not known for his patience.

 

“I did not ask for your views, boy,” Rykker said coldly.

 

“Let him speak, ser,” Jon blurted.

 

Mormont’s eyes flicked from Sam to Jon and back again. “If the lad has something to say, I’ll hear him out. Come closer, boy. We can’t see you behind those horses.”

 

“My Lord, the blood… look at it, you can see where Ghost, that is Jon’s direwolf tore off the hand and yet there is no blood,” Sam shuddered. “My father, that is Lord Randyll, he – he often made me watch as he dressed animals after...” Sam closed his eyes in another shudder. “A fresh kill will always have the blood flowing, ‘tis only later that it starts clotting like a…a jelly, thick and…and…” He looked as though he was going to be sick. “This man…look at the wrist, it’s all… _crusty…_ dry…like…”

 

Jon could see what he meant. The torn veins were like worms in the dead man’s pale flesh, his blood like flakes of black dust, yet Rykker was unconvinced.

 

“If he’d been dead for more than a day he’d already smell ripe now,” he said while making a show of sniffing at the corpse.

 

“Aye it be true,” Dywen muttered. “There be no corpse stink of this one m’lord.”

 

The Old Bear studied the corpses closer. “There’s something amiss here,” he grumbled suspiciously. “I may be old, but not so old that I cannot recall that Othor never had blue eyes.”

 

“Burn them,” someone whispered harshly, one of the rangers, though Jon could not name him by the voice alone.

 

“Aye,” more brothers started to chime in. “Burn them now and be done with it.”

 

“Nay,” Mormont barked. “I’ll not see them burned until Maester Aemon can examine them,” he waved over a few of the larger stewards. “Bring them inside for now.” The Old Bear gave Sam a rare smile and a pat on the back. “You may be a craven boy, but you’re not stupid,” and then he turned to Jon and his face visibly darkened. “Snow, you’re coming with me, there’s news from the south.”

 

Jon followed Mormont into his chambers, all while trying to push away the unease he felt, the look on the Old Bear’s face made it plain and true that the news were not of the good kind. “Pour me a horn of ale Snow, and one for yourself,” Mormont said as he sat down into his chair tiredly, his hand resting atop a letter on the table.

 

“For myself, My Lord?” Jon asked while swallowing nervously, ‘ _this is not good.’_

 

Mormont raised his gaze from the letter in his hand to stare at Jon, there was pity in those old eyes, he could _feel_ it. “You heard me,” he said gruffly.

 

Jon poured the two horns slowly, he was stalling he knew, but sooner than he wished they were full and he took a seat apprehensively and handed over one of the horns to the Old Bear.

 

“Drink!” Mormont commanded. Not until Jon had emptied his horn of ale did Mormont speak again. “The King is dead,” Mormont said bluntly, “and your father has been arrested for treason.”

 

The struck Jon like a dagger, and he was vaguely aware of his chair flying away from him as well as the empty horn. “ **Never** ” Jon hissed. “My father would never do something dishonourable, certainly not treason.” _‘But he sired a bastard did he not,’_ a smug voice in his head chided him, ‘ _that was hardly honourable now was it?’_ the voice continued to press him. It was true, Ned Stark had sullied his honour by lying with another woman that was not his Lady Wife, Jon would know, _‘I’ve been paying the price for that act all my life,’_ he thought surly.

 

“My – my sisters,” Jon pleaded.

 

Mormont shook his head sadly. “No word of them lad,” he placed a placating arm on Jon’s shoulder. “You should not worry Lad,” he reassured him. “They are far too valuable to be harmed.”

 

“Worry?” Jon gaped. “My father is under arrest for treason and you tell me to not worry?”

 

Jon gasped as his head was whipped to the side, his cheek smarting fiercely from where Mormont had backhanded him. “Take care of your tone Snow,” he warned Jon. “You’ve yet to take your vows since the discovery of the bodies cut it short...” Mormont studied him or rather his face. “Tomorrow you’ll take your horse and ride south to Winterfell.”

 

“What?” Jon tried to rebut, but words failed him.

 

“I’ve seen that look in a Stark’s eyes before lad,” the Old Bear said grimly. “Last time I saw that look, Eddard Stark rode south, and along with Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Hoster Tully he broke the Targaryens.”

 

Jon let out a breath he’d been unaware he was holding. Mormont wasn’t banishing him so much as he was advising Jon to go south, to help Robb get their father and sisters back. “Someday I’ll return,” Jon said stubbornly. “I’ll become a brother in the Watch yet My Lord, you just wait and see.”

 

Mormont smiled sadly at him. “No you won’t lad… now, off with you, find your bed,” Mormont paused and if Jon wasn’t mistaken he was trying to strangle a smile. “And do us all a favour and avoid Thorne until you leave tomorrow.”

 

Jon did not remember standing or leaving the solar. The next he knew, he was descending the tower steps, thinking, ‘ _t_ _his is my father, my sisters, how can it be none of my concern?’_

 

Outside, one of the guards looked at him and said, “Be strong, boy. The gods are cruel.”

 

‘ _They know,’_ Jon realized. “My father is no traitor,” he said hoarsely. Even the words stuck in his throat, as if to choke him. The wind was rising, and it seemed colder in the yard than it had when he’d gone in. Spirit summer was drawing to an end.

 

The rest of the evening passed as if in a dream. Jon could not have said where he walked, what he did, who he spoke with. Ghost was with him, he knew that much. The silent presence of the direwolf gave him comfort. ‘ _The girls do not even have that much,_ he thought. _'_ _Their wolves might have kept them safe, but Lady is dead and Nymeria’s lost, they’re all alone.’_ He was adamant that he would not sleep this night, but before he knew it he awoke to the sound of Ghost scrabbling at the door, his candle had long since gone out.

 

“Ghost, what is it?” he asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. The wolf turned to him and bared his teeth and Jon felt ice creep up his back, ‘ _what would make him react like this?’_ he wondered as he stood up. A sense of urgency filled him and as he opened the door and ran after Ghost who shot out into the corridor as if the Others themselves were nipping at his heels.

 

Mere moments after entering the corridor he stopped. One of the brothers lay crumpled on the floor, his head twisted around, looking up at him even though the body lay on it’s stomach. ‘ _No, it can’t be,’_ Jon told himself. ‘ _This is the Lord Commander’s tower_ _.’_ And then he heard the scarping of a boot on the floorboards. The sound came from above, from the chambers of the Lord Commander himself and Jon raced up the stairs while Ghost took off in the opposite direction.

 

The door to the Old Bear’s solar was wide open and Jon swiftly ran into the solar, cursing himself for forgetting to bring a sword with him. The room was gloomy the only source of light was a lantern hanging beside the door that led into the Old Bear’s bedchamber, said door was also open, and he could hear the sounds of movement from within. He looked around swiftly for anything that could be used as a weapon, yet all he found was an iron candlestick, but it was better than nothing, so he took it in his right hand, his knuckles were almost white so hard did he grip it. With his left he took the dying oil lamp, pausing only briefly to fill it with more oil and then he stepped into the Old Bear’s bedchamber.

 

At first he thought he must have been imagining things, the only thing he could see was the Old Bear who was snoring softly in his bed, and then he saw it, creeping along the wall towards the sleeping Lord Commander was a figure clad all in black, hooded and cloaked, hands outstretched towards his sleeping victim. “MY LORD!” Jon shouted as he lunged towards the figure and bashed it as hard as he could on the head, hard enough that he could feel the skull crack and give way to the blunt piece of iron in his hand, and yet, to his horror, the unknown assailant did not crumple to the floor, instead he turned around and Jon screamed.

 

Beneath the hood a pair of icy blue eyes shone in a face he knew. It was _Othor_ pale and undeniably dead, and yet there he...it? Stood. The face was twisted in anger and Othor lunged towards him. Jon dodged his grasping hands and stepped to the side and raised the candlestick and smashed it once more into Othor’s face, one, two, three times did he smash Othor’s face with his makeshift weapon, teeth and dusty blood flew in all directions. One of the blue eyes burst and dead skin sloughed off with each hit and yet the revenant that had once been a ranger continued to try to get at him, and then the Old Bear’s dagger impaled Othor right where the heart was, and to their astonishment, and fear, Othor just shrugged it off.

 

Othor lashed out with a heavy strike of his fist that sent the Old Bear flying towards the doorway with a loud grunt. A second swing took Jon between the ribs and he felt all the air leave his lungs, and he was dimly aware of loosing the grip he had, both on the candlestick and the lantern. A mere moment before his lamp and weapon hit the floor he felt the world start to go black after Othor hit him in the temple with his fist, the last thing he saw was the world come awash in fire as the lamp shattered on the floor, sending flames roaring into the air.

* * *

 

**The Old Bear:**

 

Jeor Mormont wiped some soot from his face. They’d been up since early morning trying to clear away the rubble left from the Lord Commander’s tower. The tower had been consumed in the blaze and Jeor had barely escaped with his life, young snow was not so fortunate. He only hoped that the last blow of Othor had killed him, better that than burn alive like his grandfather. They had little hope of finding anything remaining of the lad, but Longclaw would still be in the charred ruin, and if any bones had survived the blaze he could at least send those back to Winterfell, and then a shout broke through the silence. “By the Mother’s saggy tits,” Pypar, one of the new recruits shouted. “My Lord, come here, quick.”

 

Jeor moved up the pile of rubble to where Pypar stood, only to let out a slew of curses that would have had him thrown across his mother’s knees were she still alive. “That’s impossible,” he gasped as he looked down. There, in a small nook of divinely placed rubble perhaps was a small pocket of space that had avoided the crush of the tower collapsing, and impossibly, looking as if he was sleeping was someone who could only be Jon Snow.

 

The boy was covered in soot from head to toe, naked as the day he had been born, and not a strand of hair _anywhere_ , but most impossibly was the small winged creature curled protectively atop the lad. Deep red scales with a patterning of gold here and there. Wings, teeth, horns and spines of the darkest black. Jeor felt faint all of a sudden, it wouldn’t take a mastermind to add Jon Snow not burning from fire, a dragon resting protectively on him, and knowledge of Rhaegar Targaryen running off with Lyanna Stark to divine the truth, though it was fortunate that most of the people at Castle Black currently were either old Targaryen loyalists, or northerners.

 

“Don’t just stand there you daft boys of summer,” he yelled at the small gathering of people who were all staring at the sight of Snow and the newborn dragon. “Get him out of there and up to Maester Aemon.”

 

**AN: Aight, this idea has been churning in me mind for less than a day and was actually even more fun to write than I thought it would be. A kudos to anyone who can tell me which egg hatched, and why it was even there.**

**Until next time I wish you all a merry christmas.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KadenIV who helped me out a bit with this chapter. You rock man,

 

 

**The Lord’s Chosen Champion**

  


When news had reached him of the Lannister bastards that Cersei had been masquerading as his brother’s children he felt something unfamiliar. Something Stannis had not felt since before Mace Tyrell had laid siege to Storm’s End. Stannis felt anger. Even for all that he and Robert struggled with one another, even for all the slights and arguments, Stannis was wroth, and on his brother’s behalf. He’d always seen Cersei’s children as more Lannister than Baratheon – even when he thought they were Roberts – they all lacked anything remotely comparable to Baratheon traits and it irked Stannis then, and enraged him now. He looked up from the letter sealed with the Stark direwolf and scowled at Maester Cressen, his blue eyes hard.

“Bring me ink and paper.” He told the older man, his teeth clenching as he held in the strange anger he held. “Summon Ser Davos, my wife and the lady, Melisandre. Ravens will fly tonight.”

“At once my lord,” the grey robed maester said before scurrying away like a rodent to do as he was bid.

That had been near a sennight ago and Stannis was sat in the Chamber of the Painted Table hearing the lords that he had called to bend the knee, argue. He looked to Monford Velaryon, the lord of Driftmark. They had been having this same conversation since Celtigar and Sunglass had arrived a day past.

“The people won’t take kindly to her, Your Grace. Especially not the Faith. The Crown is meant to be an extension of the Faith. No Septon will care for this Red witch. And with all due respect, they’ll not care for you either if you continue to embrace her and that Red god she drones on about.” The middle-aged lord said as he crossed his arms over the sea green doublet he wore.

“Aye and not to mention the tales we’ve heard of those red priests putting women and children to the flame in the, ‘honourable glory’ of their lord. No one will stand behind a man who burns children.” Lord Ardrian Celtigar spoke from where he sat. The Red Crab of Crackclaw Point had grown old, but not frail, his hair an off-white colour as his lips set in a scowl.

Stannis was about to respond when a serving boy walked into the room and bowed nervously. His hair a shaggy blonde and brown, eyes a tinged sea blue.

“Pardon, m’lords and yer Grace but the Red Woman says she’s prepared something for ye’s down at the beach and asked me to bring yous down to ‘er.” His voice was shaky and unsure but Stannis remembered a time when that small boy was him, afraid to enter his father’s solar when there were guesting lords staying. He looked to each of the lords before him and stood.

“I think it best we see what the good lady has in store for us. We’ll reconvene on the morrow.” The Stormlander said as he turned from them all and walked to stand before the young page. “Lead the way lad.”

The boy looked up at him in slight shock as the other lords began to join Stannis. He made to turn around but stopped himself when he remembered his mother’s warning to always bow before kings and lords, and queens and ladies. He bowed stiffly again, “I will, yer Grace.” He said before turning around and walking back through the halls of Dragonstone, the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms and his leal lords in tow.

When they reached the sands of Dragonstone’s beach, Stannis could already see the fires, the sky above was bright and red as seven objects were aflame, being consumed by red fire.

“What in the Hells..” Monford was the first to speak when they were close enough to see what was going on. Hundreds of men, if not over a thousand depending on how many of the men his lords had brought with them to Dragonstone had joined, were there watching this. Some with heads bowed in reverence, but most with sheer shock and disgust on their faces.

“She’s burning the images of the Seven,” one of the men that the lords had brought with them told the group as the stood, staring in shock at the wooden statues that were carved into the likeness of Westeros’ seven godhead.

Stannis was shocked, to say the least. He knew Melisandre was against the Seven, but he never thought she would go so far as to torch them. He was no pious and holy septon, but he knew the importance of appearances. The lords may not take kindly to a king that worships a foreign god, but they would not go to far against him. A king that burned their gods and proclaimed them false however, was a different thing entirely. He was about to speak, to demand what was the meaning of this when the Red woman began her sermon.

“Lord of Light,” She spoke loudly and clearly, her voice carrying even without raising it. “Come to us in our darkness, we offer you these false gods. These images carved wrongly by mortal hands. Take them and free us from this wickedness we would encase ourselves in. Cast your light on us and illuminate our way and our lives. For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” some ten men that had since converted to the Red Faith echoed as she turned away from the burning idols to look at them all. Her copper eyes and red hair, bright and alive as though they themselves were forged from the fires.

“When the long Summer fades and Winter comes, darkness will fall heavy on the world,” she looked at the men as she walked before them, Stannis was watching her, his eyes weighing her, he knew where this was going. She had broached the subject with him many times to Davos’ dismay.

“In the ancient books it is written that a warrior will draw a burning sword from the fire, and that sword would be Lightbringer,” she was waking closer to Stannis with every word, and he could hear the men behind him and around him whispering and shuffling in the sand.

“Stannis Baratheon, the Lord’s chosen, warrior of light. Go forth and claim your sword, for you are the Saviour of Man, the Warrior of the Dawn. You are the rightful King, the Prince that was promised.”

Stannis looked at her a moment, searching her eyes, deciding whether to play along or have her put in irons. He was the second son. And with all of Robert’s ‘children’ bastards born of incest, he was the heir. The King. He made to step forward, to go and take the sword that was planted in the flames, when he felt a strong hand hold his shoulder.

Stannis turned, intent on haranguing the man who had dared to lay a hand on him, “You treacherous cur,” he snarled. The man who had laid a hand on his shoulder was none other than Monford Velaryon, who held a misericorde in his hand, a misericorde that was pressed against his heart, any move from Stannis and it would pierce him, mail and heart and leave him bleeding out on the beach.

“What do you think you are doi-!” the Lady Melisandre’s screams were cut short at the sound of half a dozen crossbows firing.

“Did you really think that the Lords of the Narrow Sea would forget who truly has the right to rule these lands Baratheon?” Lord Velaryon asked him. “Have a look, _My Lord,_ ” And Stannis did. One after another, the men at arms his treacherous Lords had brought with them unfurled banners, black ones, with a three headed dragon. Others still tore of Baratheon surcoats to reveal Targaryen ones beneath. He could see several leal men, officers even of the local garrison join them in subduing the few Florent and Baratheon men at arms who had joined him over the years.

“What is the meaning of this?” His wife Selyse’s uncle Ser Axell Florent protested while several of Lord Monford’s men pushed him to his knees, only when a blade was laid on his neck did he cease his struggling.

“My Lords,” Lord Monford stepped away from Stannis after a few of his men siezed Stannis and clapped his arms in chains behind his back. “I have here a letter from Aemon Targaryen, the maester at Castle Black,” he held the letter into the air. “It says here, that Rhaegar had one last son,” Monford held up a hand to still the shouts or whispers, while Stannis tried to snort at the ludicrous notion. “A son by Lyanna Stark, raised in secret as Eddard Stark’s bastard son.”

Had his arms been free, Stannis would have slapped himself. Why on earth had no one ever mentioned _that_ theory before. And he knew why just moments afterwards. Eddard Stark’s word was so trusted, his honour so unquestioned, that if Eddard Stark told the world that he had a bastard, then none would even think on how convenient it was that he travelled to Dorne with six men to find his sister, guarded by three of the blasted Kingsguard and then returned with one man, a babe, and a sister who had died of a ‘fever’. He cursed himself, and Eddard Stark. Had Robert known then the boy would’ve been murdered the moment Stark set foot in King’s Landing on his way home, yet Eddard Stark had outwitted them all it seemed.

“The boy is a bastard,” one man shouted.

“Yeah, Rhaegar was already married ‘e was.”

Monford let a victorious smile flit across his face. “A bastard is he?” he asked rhetorically. “Then why was the Lord Commander and the other two still loyal Kingsguard with him in Dorne rather than with Viserys?” Monford questioned. "twould not be the first time a Targaryen took a second wife."

It was after this revelation that Stannis felt the world go black as someone bashed him over the head with the pommel of a sword.

* * *

 

**Jon:**

It was with a panicked gasp of air that Jon woke up, his eyes flew open and he tried to jump out of the bed only for a strong arm to push him back onto the mattress. “Easy lad, easy, your head took a nasty hit.”

Jon closed his eyes again as he tried to beat back the nausea, his head _was_ throbbing, and then he remembered, the fire. “I should be dead,” he whispered as he opened his eyes again, and instantly knew he must be dreaming. Seated beside his bed was none other that Ser Alliser Thorne, but he couldn’t be. Under no circumstances could Jon think of **any** reason for why Ser Alliser would look upon him with respect, and concern even, nor would Ser Alliser ever speak a word to Jon without mentioning the word ‘bastard’.

“I’ll find maester Aemon, you just rest,” and then Ser Alliser stalked out of the room, which was when Jon received his second shock. Ghost pouncing on him was expected, and he weakly managed to push the ever growing direwolf off of him, getting away relatively well and dry with only a few wet licks across his face. No the shock came in the form of a red dragon, a _dragon_ letting out a joyous warbling sound from atop a dresser. Said dragon leapt off and glided through the air on unsteady wings and landed on top of Jon’s chest, causing him to let out a pained gasp as the breath was driven out of his lungs.

Amazingly he felt no fear as he gazed into the golden eyes of the mythical creature, rather there was a sense of belonging, and he almost felt as if he could feel a fire start to burn within his chest. A sense of vertigo came over him, and for a _brief_ moment he almost thought that he _was_ the dragon, it happened so swiftly, but was _certain_ that for that brief moment he had seen himself lying in bed from the dragon’s own eyes, cheek yellow from a large fading bruise, and bald as an egg. _‘Skinchanger,’_ he thought with a shudder. It wasn’t the first time after all, had he not done the same when he found Ghost? Perhaps there was more to Old Nan’s tales after all.

“Amazing isn’t it?” Jon snapped his eyes away from the dog sized creature, almost of a size with Ghost already and laid eyes on Maester Aemon who looked younger than Jon had ever seen him. Oh he was still old, his eyes were milky white and his skin covered with liver-spots, but there was a … vitality to him, a joy that had previously not been there.

“I never thought I’d see a dragon,” Jon admitted.

“And I never will,” Maester Aemon said sadly, “But at least it permitted me to touch it, though I sense its loyalty is to you rather than myself.”

“Me...” Jon breathed, “But why? How?”

“Twas you who hatched it lad,” Aemon explained as he took a seat near Jon’s bed and absently ran a wrinkled hand up the dragon’s spine, causing it to warble happily.

“No,” Jon shook his head. “I – I didn’t do anything, I shouldn’t even be al – alive.”

A look of sadness crossed the old Maester’s face. “You mean...” he looked even sadder if that was possible. “Then it falls to me to tell you the truth, or what little truth I know at least,” and so he did.

Jon was numb, he listened to one point after another. Rhaegar’s obsession with a prophecy about a ‘Prince that was Promised,’ letters exchanged with Aemon, detailing about how mayhap Rhaegar’s son Aegon, Jon’s brother apparently might be the Prince, about how Rhaegar had despaired, wanting to get assistance to dethrone his mad and tormented father before he went too far, how he had fallen in love with a northern she-wolf. One of Rhaegar’s last letters to Aemon had been about how he had finally admitted to Elia the truth, about how he was in love with Lyanna, of how he might finally gain the power he needed to dethrone his father and bring back prosperity to the Kingdom. Elia had wished him good fortune, and told him to be careful.

Jon knew the rest. Someone had told his uncle Brandon that his aunt, had been raped and kidnapped, and rather than gain the powerful alliance he had hoped for, Rhaegar had inadvertently started the most destructive war Westeros had seen since the Dance of Dragons.

“No,” Jon denied for what must have been the hundredth time, “Eddard Stark is my father.”

“So how do you explain the dragon on your chest lad?” Aemon shot back, though not unkindly. “How did you survive the pyre that reduced even steel swords to molten slag?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” Jon wept, the last time he had felt so angry, so sad, had been the first time he had called Lady Stark ‘mother’. She had slapped him then and called him a motherless bastard, and to never again presume to call her mother. He had wept since too, most of the time due to Lady Stark, but never again had he felt such pain, such longing for a woman to call mother, and ever since, his biggest comfort was the sure knowledge that Eddard Stark at least was his father. But no matter how much he tried to cling on to that knowledge, he knew it was futile, too much made sense, things he had never noticed before came to the fore of his mind.

Like how in all of his five and ten years of life, Eddard Stark had _never_ actually called Jon his son, it was always ‘You have my blood,’ and then there was the matter of his mother. For what reason would Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North himself keep Jon’s mother a secret? Many things had been said about Lord Stark, but cruel was never among them, so there must be a good reason for it, such as Jon being the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, why else would he wait until Jon had taken the Black? Out of reach of King’s and Queens, and incapable of pressing a claim the would bring about a new war, and forcing the Honourable Ned Stark to choose between his blood and his friend.

Jon wanted to be furious, it wouldn’t be hard he knew, cold and aloof as he seemed, Jon had a dragon’s temper as Robb had once said in jest, ‘ _closer to the truth than we ever thought,’_ Jon remarked to himself. But in the end he couldn’t stay angry, he knew that his uncle, the man who by all respects was his father, had done what he thought was best, and spared the Realm of further war.

“Do you...” Jon swallowed angrily, hating how his voice trembled. “DO you know how I hatched the dragon? How I survived the blaze?”

“Mayhap the heat of the blaze or the longevity of it, or perhaps a combination of the two is the reason why the egg hatched,” Aemon mused, “As for how you survived, there have been instances in our family where some of us have been immune to fire, such as was the case of your lookalike.”

Jon frowned, he had always been told that he looked like a Stark, more so than any of Eddard Stark’s other children, with the exception of Arya. “Your brother?” Jon questioned, “Aegon the Fifth?” Aemon had mentioned his brother turned King fondly several times the last few hours, and King Aegon was Jon’s great-great-grandfather.

Aemon laughed. “No lad,” he said after he regained control over his voice. “I spoke of my elder brother Aerion. You might be a bit longer in the face, but not much, the rest of you though,” Aemon sounded oddly conflicted, “the rest of you is like my elder brother come again, including the face, if only Aerion had your character as well, a lot could have been different.”

“Wait a moment,” Jon remarked suspiciously. “Did Aerion not perish after drinking wildfire?”

“Ae he did,” Aemon acknowledged. “Yet wildfire is inherently magical, a mix of science and dark magic. On more than one occasion I saw my brother bathe in boiling water or walk through raging bonfires with naught a blister, far less a burn on his flesh, but wildfire, as he discovered to his horror is something else entirely.”

“So what now?” Jon asked. “What do I do?”

Aemon ‘hmmed’ thoughtfully for a moment, before sighing. “There is only one choice for you lad, and you know it just as well as I do.”

“ _War,_ ” Jon whispered fearfully, his hands were shaking even, he realized, “can’t I, can’t I just stay here? I wouldn’t be the first Targaryen,” he said with what he hoped was an optimistic tone.

“I’m afraid not,” Aemon said, still sounding mournful. “Take another look at your dragon, how big is it?”

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Jon admitted. “Near the size of Ghost already.”

“Indeed,” Aemon said. “Dragons are creatures of magic, the exude magic, but also consume it. It has been here for little more than a fortnight and already it is near three of not four times as large as any other dragon of our House ever was at the same age, can you surmise why?”

“The Wall,” Jon said after a moment of thought, it was a foregone conclusion after all.

“Aye the Wall,” Aemon agreed. “Barely a fortnight and the dragon is already affecting it. The Wall is weeping far more than normal, pieces have broken off, and for those of us who have been here long enough there is a slight, but still noticeable increase in temperature,” Aemon sighed. “The Wall is built with magic, magic of ice and winter, while dragons are fire made flesh, they are anathema to one another.”

“So as long as I stay here with the dragon I am slowly but surely destroying the Wall?” Jon asked aghast.

“No lad,” Aemon laughed. “It would take decades, if not centuries before the dragon could affect the Wall to the point where it would threaten collapse, but more than just the Lord Commander and myself would take notice before long, and that is something we do not want.”

Jon nodded thoughtfully. “The Lord Commander did tell me to get back to Winterfell, no doubt he knew that I would want to join Robb on the march south to free my – my uncle.”

“Perhaps,” Aemon admitted. “Though I must admit, and I do hope you’ll forgive me, I took the liberty to send out a few ravens explaining the situation.”

“Ravens?” Jon questioned. “To whom?”

“My mother was a Dayne did you know that?” Aemon asked instead of answering, “And my grandmother was a Martell, and the Lords of the Narrow Sea has ever been faithful to our family, and we share enough blood with the Velaryons that even if we haven’t actually had a union between Velaryon and Targaryen since the end of the Dance we are still family.”

Jon winced. He knew perfectly well what had happened to Aegon and Rhaenys, his elder siblings, and their mother Elia, and he doubted that Dorne would welcome him with open arms, and the Lords of the Narrow Sea? In the very heart of the Crownlands, a place that was almost as harsh on bastards as the Reach and Westerlands.

“You are no bastard lad, you know this,” Aemon countered when Jon voiced his objections, “Would the Kingsguard be there if you were?”

“But Elia?”

“It would not be the first time a Targaryen took a second bride while his first one still lived,” Aemon chastised him, “A fact which I’ve no doubts you know of already, so the precedent is there.”

“And so I just introduce myself to the Dornish or the Narrow Sea Lords as Jon Targaryen?” he snorted with disbelief, “That is going to go over well.”

Aemon chuckled knowingly. “While I doubt you will ever cast the name ‘Jon’ aside, at least not for yourself, the fact remains that your mother and Rhaegar no doubt had another name in mind for you, ‘twould be Visenya were you born a girl this I know, but he never mentioned a boy’s name in our letters, so that would be up to you.”

“ _Me_ ” Jon asked. “But why?”

“You know well as I do that if you are to stand any chance you **need** a name that whatever loyalists remain can gather around, Call yourself Jon in private if you must, but I will tell you what I told my brother when he ascended to the throne, _Kill the boy and let the man be bor_ _n, it takes an Aegon, not an Egg to rule._ ” Aemon smiled at him. “Egg was a grown man, with children of his own when he took the throne, and in many ways was even more of a boy than you are now, no doubt a product of yours bastard upbringing, but you are still not ready, cast aside the bastard, nephew, and become the King you were meant to be.”

“Daeron,” Jon admitted at last. Of all the Kings and heroes he and Robb had pretended to be in their childhood games, Daeron the Young Dragon had by far been Jon’s favourite. The man who conquered Dorne at four and ten, he was the sort of man Jon had always wanted to be, to emulate, and unlike Daeron, Jon had an actual dragon, not just himself.

“A good name,” Aemon admitted after a moment’s thought.

One question still burned in Jon’s mind though. “Where did the egg come from?”

Aemon grinned slightly. “Twas the famous Butterwell egg,” he admitted. “My great uncle Brynden brought it with him to the Wall I’m sure of it. He never _did_ tell anyone what he did with it, not even the King, but considering how the colouring has been described I think there is little doubt that the dragon hatched from the Butterwell egg.” Aemon gave the dragon another loving scratch, this time underneath the chin, and Jon failed to hold back a twitch of amusement as the dragon visibly shivered and then collapsed in a manner eerilie similar to Ghost whenever someone found the right spot to scratch. “Now, you still need a few more days of rest, which will give us the time for me to try and teach you all you need to know about our family, but until then, I do have something for you.”

Aemon fiddled with the lock of a chest at the foot of Jon’s bed and after a few moments the old lock ‘clicked’ open and the old, and apparently rarely used chest croaked rustily as Aemon opened it for what must have been the first time in decades most likely. “You’re a few inches taller than Brynden was, but I think this might fit you none the less,” he explained as he started to lift out pieces of armour.

The plates were covered in a thick layer of dust, but even so, Jon could still make out the black and red colouring that had been mixed into the metal. “It’s the armour he wore when he was hand of the King,” he explained before Jon could comment on how elaborate it was. The armour was certainly elaborate, overlapping plates, sharp edges, accented with red or gold, both a shirt and trousers with scales and chain fastened to it to provide additional protection, and lastly a closed helm with red dragon wings and a long red and white tassel that ended half a foot below the neck. All in all the armour had no doubt cost a King’s ransom, or at the very least caused any but the richest of Lords to raise their eyes at the cost.

“And lastly, there’s this,” in his hand he held a slender blade housed within a black scabbard with gold meeting the cross guard which had a ruby set on either side. The gold of the waving horizontal guard, shaped like flames, seemed to leak into the black hilt, which had gilded lines through it leading to the golden fire shaped pommel. “Dark Sister,” Aemon said as Jon drew the blade from the scabbard, the blade itself dark red, like blood, with smoky ripples running along its length. “Ever had she had a thirst for blood, and I think now is the time for her to taste it once more.”

“I...” Jon was speechless, just once had he actually held Valyrian steel in his hands, but Ice belonged to Robb, as much his birthright as Winterfell, but where Ice was a symbolic weapon, a tool for execution, Dark Sister was a tool of war, and had been used for such by some of the greatest warriors in Westeros’ history, and now it was his. “I hope I’m worthy of her,” he whispered.

“You will be lad, you will be.”

**AN: As you can see, Jon has picked a 'regnal' name for himself, in the form of Daeron Targaryen, but don't worry, he'll still think of himself as Jon.**

 

**Oh, and unless a miracle happens it seems as this will be Jon/Arianne (which is my 2nd fav pairing) though I will admit to considering having Jon make an alliance/marry a female Blackfyre, which will essentially be fAegon's elder sister. What you guys think of that? Jon/Ari or Jon/FemBlackfyre?  
  
Read and review please.**


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